


Worse Things

by fengirl88



Series: Kiss Chase [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Kissbingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never used to understand people who talked about waking at 4 or 5 a.m. with the worst things in the world standing around their bed.</p><p>post-<i>The Great Game</i>, from Sherlock's point of view.  Companion piece/sequel to Kiss Chase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worse Things

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt square "other: to put them to sleep" on my kissbingo card.

He never used to understand people who talked about waking at 4 or 5 a.m. with the worst things in the world standing around their bed. Their idea of _worst things_ was so absurd and pathetic anyway: things they'd done or said wrong, mostly mind-numbingly trivial. Social awkwardness. Hurt feelings. Sins of omission.

Now he wakes every morning somewhere in that hour between 4 and 5 and what's standing by his bed is Moriarty at the pool. Saying _The flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now._

And he burns with shame. As if he's become one of those stupid ordinary people he used to despise.

Shame, and fear. The loss that came so close – _burn the heart out of you_ – he can't even think about it. What he did, carelessly, arrogantly, to them both. To John, most of all.

Sherlock watches him when he thinks John's not looking. Dark shadows under his eyes in a face that's almost greyer, more tense with controlled pain, than when Sherlock first met him, saw him and found himself thinking something he'd never thought about anyone before: _My god, what did they do to you?_ He's limping again sometimes, too, as if his body's trying to say _Can't do this any more, please don't make me_.

The pink phone hasn't gone off again, but its presence is a constant reminder that Moriarty's got them in his sights once more. No red dots dancing over their bodies now, but there might as well be. He feels _hunted_ , and he knows John does too. And it's all his fault.

He keeps hearing snatches of dialogue from impossibly long ago, that day John moved into 221b and Lestrade came to plead for Sherlock's help with the serial suicides...

Mrs Hudson saying _Look at you, all happy ... it's not decent_ , and his own voice saying _Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!_

He understands something about the word _decent_ now that he didn't before: that John Watson is its living definition. He can't not care about that.

The game was the only thing that mattered then. A bigger high than cocaine: _I am on fire!_

He's burning up now, but it's not the same. Days, it feels as if there's nothing left of him but a heap of ashes in the shape of a man, that a breath could disperse. And every night he's made whole, remade to be burnt up again as if for the first time.

They don't talk about it. He's never seen the point of that, but even if he could, he wouldn't. Talking would make it real. If he doesn't say anything then – _burn the heart out of you_ , stop it – it's just a threat, a nightmare. If he admits Moriarty was right, that he _does_ have a heart, then the real destruction will begin.

So he doesn't let himself ask the question that's been tormenting him ever since he regained consciousness in the hospital: _Why did you kiss me when we were lying there in the wreckage?_ He pretends all of that is buried, never to be unearthed from the rubble. There's nothing to ask, nothing to tell. But he knows his dreaming mind plays archaeologist, piecing together fragments till they become an unignorable whole and he wakes up feverish, sweating and shaking.

This time, though, it's different. The bedside light's on, and John is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning towards him.

“You were shouting,” John says. “I know you've been having nightmares, but this one sounded different.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock mutters, flushing.

John looks astonished. “What are you apologising for?”

“Waking you. Disturbing you.”

“Oh, I was awake already,” John says wryly.

“You're not sleeping well,” Sherlock says. He thinks that may just be the most stupid thing he's ever said.

“No,” John says. “I'm not.”

He's shivering, and Sherlock is burning. This is all wrong.

“Get into bed,” Sherlock says. “Heat exchange.”

John doesn't argue, which is almost as surprising as Sherlock saying that in the first place. He feels cold in Sherlock's arms, and they both gasp a bit at the contrast in their temperatures.

“Sherlock Holmes, the human radiator,” John says.

It's not _that_ funny, but they laugh as if it is.

John buries his cold nose in Sherlock's burning shoulder, and Sherlock's hands are doing things he didn't intend, threading through John's hair and stroking the back of his neck. John's mouth against his shoulder is unexpectedly hot and the touch of his tongue makes Sherlock catch his breath and grip him harder.

“It's OK,” John says. “It's all right, I'm not going anywhere.”

“Don't,” Sherlock says, though he's not quite sure what he's saying _Don't_ to. He's shaking.

John kisses his neck and his ear and the point of his jawbone and his cheek and the corner of his eyebrow. Kisses his eyelids, too, which feels very strange but amazingly good.

“Go to sleep,” he says, stroking Sherlock's hair. “I'll be here when you wake up.”

Sherlock knows there's something he ought to say, a warning or a protest, _Moriarty_ , but it's too late. The exhaustion of the last few weeks hits him suddenly in its full force, and he doesn't resist as John kisses his eyes shut again.


End file.
